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City of the Chosen
Valrose: City of the Chosen The journey to Valrose was a quiet one, Evaerus and Illiv riding hard through the day. Illiv drifted “far from this life,” electing to speak little and ride much. Under different circumstances, Evaerus might have been bothered by the silence, but the surreal feeling of his situation took him in and made the days blend together in a miasma of introspection and peace. It was hot and bright outside as they rode, his sense of isolation furthered by the tranquil sky and the rush of the wind in his ears. After days of introspection, as Valose appeared on the horizon, Evaerus felt he had made several important breakthroughs regarding his life. He was fairly certain that Illiv was correct when he said that he was chosen by the gods of death. It felt right, and events from his past seemed to encourage the story. He always had a sort of talent among the other mercenaries, not in combat, but in the ability to afterwards mentally allow the sight of the carnage and the blood to roll off of him, like rain upon a smooth shield. It almost actively calmed and soothed him. He might even say that he needed it in his life. In fact, Illiv himself seemed to carry a certain air about him that made Evaerus feel that special calm. Evaerus had however also concluded that he missed his fucking forge and that he’d rather be death’s cheery blacksmith than the leader of Her armies, and that Illiv was a god damned cocksucker for burning his things. When other travelers began to clog the road to Valrose and the pair were forced to slow their pace it was Illiv who broke the silence. “It is strange to see so many people in one place. Surely the gods watch over this spectacle.” Evaerus grunted, and Illiv continued. “I think I will fight in this Tournament, Evaerus. I trust you to gather information on the other people of this place. Leave no rock unturned. Every detail of a man’s story is significant.” Another grunt. Evaerus could hear the ring of the forges, distant in the city. Son of a bitch, Illiv. ************ A collection of men clad in dark cloaks and armor bearing a crescent moon symbol stood watch at the entrance of the registry building. Illiv inspected them closely as he passed them. They seemed like hard men, and women, he noted. Passing them, Illiv and Evaerus entered a noisy, crowded room where several long lines had formed in front of multiple large oaken desks. It became apparent quickly which line was used to register combatants and Illiv fell into place with Evaerus. Shortly after, a man clad similarly to the men outside came stomping in heavy metal boots out of a back room towards the door that Illiv and Evaerus had just entered through. Illiv was hit hard with the pungent scent of alcohol emanating from him. This man with sword and shield with rigid posture as full blackened plate armor, was moving as quickly as he could without trampling anyone away from the desk as a gangly blond man with a wide grin chased after him, shouting “What does a map have in common with a legless whore?” '' Despite the jovial air of the two men, murmurs of “Wolfeater” and “Saint” echoed in the wake of their passing. Illiv turned to Evaerus “I believe this is where we part ways.” Evaerus grunted and walked after the two, and Illiv was suddenly made painfully aware of the cacophony of metal armor and weapons that Evaerus made with each step. Between his charismatic grunting and the constant racket of noise, Illiv concluded that Evaerus was certainly no spy and that he would have to be on the lookout for a new man to add to his troops who would be able to fulfill that duty. ********** Not long after registering himself for the events of the tournament, Illiv found a bench near the hall to watch the passersby and to break his fast for the day. He ate and watched the strange men and women of this place from a distance. Occasionally one of the crowd would glance his way and quickly look away, or a group of people would point in his direction, but to his pleasure most people left him alone. He was not in a conversational mood. Illiv’s luck would not last though, for as he was cleaning up after his meal he heard a shout from the crowd “Hey Death, is that you!” Illiv looked up to see a thin man in flowing black and white clothing sprinting to him, grinning wildly. His words carried a slight accent that Illiv could not place. “No.” The other man stopped in front of Illiv and looked him up and down. “Oh, well you certainly look like it to me. If you aren’t death then what are you?” He circled Illiv, inspecting him like he had encountered some strange new specimen of a beast. Illiv stood up and turned to offer a hand to the foreigner. “I am Illiv Cell. What are you?” “Oh I’m Zeeno…wow, you are ''really scary!” Zeeno shook Illiv’s hand quickly then continued to move about. “So why do you look this way?” He eyed the stitches and scars on Illiv’s torso. Illiv sighed and tried to analyze this Zeeno. He looked to the crowd, and could see no people standing still, waiting for a friend to return from an encounter with a strange painted man. He was alone then. Interesting. “I seek to embody the will of my Goddess, Unquala. These paints, this garb I wear, was traditional among those of my people who seek to pay homage to her.” Without missing a beat, “Was?” Illiv smiled. He was correct. This man was very bright. Illiv believed that most curious people were. He was also socially fearless. Intelligent, dangerous, and looking for something. If he was merely intelligent and socially fearless he’d most likely be stealing things, yet his gaze had not yet drifted to Illiv’s bag or coin purse; therefore, it was interesting company that he was after. Desperately after, for he was desperately bored, Illiv concluded. All these thoughts raced through Illiv’s mind in a fraction of a second, a fraction of a second that he tried, and failed, to disguise as the sort of slow, cool air that he had come to adopt so frequently. Zeeno arched an eyebrow as Illiv replied. “Not many of my people follow the old ways as I do.” “Oh! Well, then why do you pay homage to her?” More bright smiles from Zeeno. Illiv stoned himself further. “I am Her chosen. In today’s tournaments, I will be fighting as her champion. My life is in Her hands. Now if you don’t mind, I must make haste to the dueling pits if I am to give proper honor to my Lady.” All of this Illiv said, but all that Zeeno heard was “She chose me” and all he could do was wonder how. He waved wildly and grinned “Ok then, I’m going to just call you Death though! Good bye, Death, it was nice meeting you!” Illiv felt relieved to have escaped the conversation. He knew that he would be seeing that man again soon though. Judging by the two thin, long, curved blades by Zeeno’s side, Illiv guessed that he’d be fighting against him later in the day, but he hoped that after the dust settled that they could be allies rather than enemies. ************ Later in the day Illiv found himself sweating and bruised in the dueling pits, accumulating as many wins as possible to qualify for the final tournament bracket. Here, surrounded by so many champions and excellent fighters, he truly felt human. He could feel his limits, he could feel the crowdedness of an entire city of the chosen of the gods. He tried, he tried hard to banish this sense of groundedness but could not. Struggle as he might he could not feel the pull of his Lady. He was here in Valrose, alone, powerless among champions. After hours of fighting hard, Illiv took a brief respite on a bench, watching quietly as the other champions fought in the sand, eying one fighter in particular. The thin man named Zeeno in billowing white and black clothing fought in a contorted, acrobatic style that reminded Illiv of a snake, twisting and writhing around a prey that had been bitten but had not yet succumb to the venom in its body, but it was not his fighting style that drew Illiv’s attention. It was that this man, while always polite with the other fighters, was ever curt, returning to solitude after every fight, while the other fighters trailed off to join groups of friends or fans. He had made no effort thus far to speak to Illiv either, only smiling his wide white smile and waving frantically upon first making eye contact. Illiv waited until the foreigner dispatched his last opponent before stepping into the pit and locking gazes with him. Calm eyes, relaxed posture. Illiv adopted a rigid stance in response, holding forth his two swords in a defensive position. He and the other man circled and fought in small bursts of energy as Illiv charged him, flailing his blades and watching how the other responded. The trades continues, until the other man counter-attacked, twisting his body to perfectly evade both of Illiv’s blades, sending a perfect lunge into Illiv’s gut. The blunted tip of the practice sword punched hard into Illiv, who grunted and squinted against the pain, stepping back and bowing. A judge recorded a point for the other man. He left the small arena, paced in the sand for a brief time, and returned to the man named Zeeno, who stood still in the pit. “Care for a rematch?” The foreigner looked away and shrugged before tapping blades “Sure.” Illiv charged his opponent, swords whirling in an all-out attack, screaming “BLASPHEMER!” at the top of his lungs as he sent both his blades in rapid succession into the other man, sending him staggering back under the weight of the assault. He quickly finished him as both swords made contact with opposite sides of his opponent’s body. The other man groaned and walked away. “Good fight.” Illiv stood and thought, before following him. “You fight with your mind.” The other man, whose back was turned to Illiv started. “Oh! I’m sorry I didn’t see you there. Yeah, you noticed?” He took a seat on one of the rough wooden benches and offered Illiv a place beside him. Illiv opened his bag and produced some food. “Are you hungry?” Zeeno smiled. “Famished.” “I did notice. That’s why I won the last fight. You lose strength if your opponent doesn’t leave you time to think. What are you going to do about that in the final eight?” Zeeno took the salted fish that Illiv offered him and leaned back on the bench. “Oh I don’t really plan to make it there. Truth be told I came to Valrose this year hoping to see an old friend of mine.” “And I suppose that you didn’t find him?” Illiv took note that Zeeno’s face had seemed to change. It lost its permanent grin, and his eyes seemed colder and more distant. “No, I did not. I seem to be very good at losing people.” Illiv cocked his head. He heard “I have lost many people.” “Loss is natural. Perhaps you would be better off to embrace it.” Zeeno grinned then, but his eyes remained cynical. “Oh I’m sure that death is an easy thing to cope with.” He made a show of looking Illiv up and down. “Look at you. Let me guess, mommy and daddy died when you were young and your whole world collapsed on you so now you dress like a corpse all day?” Illiv smiled, staring forward into the pits, watching the men fighting there, dancing their mad, pointless dances. “Yeah. That’s right.” They sat in silence for a while. ************ The final round of fighting drew near. Illiv had made it into the final eight, where practice weapons would be discarded for razor sharp steel. The other contestants sat with him in a dusty, sweaty row as an announcer droned on about their bravery and prowess. He scanned the other contestants with a discerning eye and to little surprise, the man who he had met earlier, Zeeno, was among them. Other competitors were two Soans, long haired and wild, three Akronians, one with bright startling eyes, and the infamous current champion of Valrose, Greyne Mobilis. Looking around the arena he found the leader of the Saints, relaxing under a banner in the front row across from him. Illiv scowled. The man had a mug in his hand and was laughing. Hardly appropriate for a servant of Hurin, the god of Justice. He began to turn back towards the pit when something caught his eye. Next to the Saint! Evaerus! Drinking and grinning, laughing even with the leader of the Saints. Illiv smiled to himself. Perhaps he had underestimated the blacksmith. The pairings of the first round were announced. Zeeno was to fight Greyne Mobilis. Zeeno’s face was unreadable as he stood and moved to the center of the pit. The two squared off as Zeeno adopted his typical limber stance and Greyne slowly, calmly, raised a buckler and short sword. Illiv had not seen the man fight, but he certainly made no strong first impressions. If anything, he seemed slightly nervous. The announcer called the fight and the two combatants honorably touched blades before beginning. Zeeno stepped back, slowly circling his opponent. Greyne turned only slightly to keep his adversary in his sights. Zeeno bolted in quickly, weaving his swords like serpents, poised to feint and then strike with deadly fangs. Illiv watched with rapt awe as Zeeno stopped his charge as though frozen, just before his blades could wrap around Greyne’s shield. Greyne’s sword had somehow found its way to perfectly slide through Zeeno’s defense, and its tip rested comfortably below his collarbone. There was a faint red stain on Zeeno’s loose white shirt. Illiv blinked. It was impossible…he hadn’t even seen the other man move. He was a god. The crowd went wild. Zeeno stepped back, removing himself from the tip of the blade, and bowed. The fight was over. Illiv stiffened. He clenched and unclenched his fists. A free, light feeling bubbled through him, washing over his consciousness. He would be next, and She was with him. He fought the urge to laugh. Upon seeing the results of the first match, Evaerus wheeled on the man sitting next to him. Sinthaster was making a symbol in the air, directed at Greyne. “What the hell was that, man! That’s no human, that’s a monster! Seven protect us!” Sinthaster laughed and put an arm around Evaerus’ shoulder “Please, Dear Evaerus, there are no monsters in these fights, only men…The celebrations afterwards however may be a different case entirely!” The bearded man grinned wide, but Evaerus was still not calmed. “Say what you want, that was actually unsettling. He’s like lightning.” The other man settled back into his seat and took a bite from a leg of turkey. “Bah, Greyne’s a pushover. There are days when even I get the better of him. He’s just being flashy.” Evaerus eyed Greyne from above, who looked utterly uninterested in fighting. If anything he seemed uncomfortable and confused, a thinking scowl on his face as though he was baffled by his own speed. “Ok, Sir, but he does not strike me as a flashy man.” Through turkey filled teeth, Sinthaster managed a garbled “Well we were up pretty late, I guess that’s no surprise. I mean yeah Greyne is a good fighter, he’s the champion. He’s still human though.” Evaerus stared into his ale. What was he like then when he was wakeful? When he felt rage? He looked over at Sinthaster. His new friend was heralding over a maid, but his every movement suddenly seemed feral. His eyes that Evaerus once saw as mirthful and relaxed, now seemed predatory and mysterious. What manner of man calls that sort of speed a “pushover”? Evaerus was lost in thought when an elbow nudged him. “Hey, that’s your man there entering the ring!” Evaerus focused back on the right and saw Illiv, clad in his face paint and robes, slowly stepping into the arena. One of the Soan barbarians faced across from him. “And you called Greyne the monster, eh? Look at that guy. I mean it takes a special breed of person to dedicate their life to a death goddess, huh?” He winked at Evaerus. The blacksmith smiled “Zealots surely are a mad lot” both men laughed. Evaerus took another swig of his mead as he turned his attention back towards the fight at hand. From his front row seat he could see the fight perfectly, but he suspected that even the folk at the back of the arena could see Illiv’s wide, wild eyes. He had never actually seen the man fight, and his demeanor had certainly changed. He seemed…rigid. Tense. He kept pacing, moving his swords, his head lowered. It look as though he was talking to himself, and Evaerus wondered not for the first time if he was following a madman. He looked then to the man across from Illiv, Mars of Soa. The other man was sitting on his haunches, but it was still obvious that he was abnormally proportioned. His arms were long and gangly, and there appeared to have once been great scarification upon his body, the sort that a man who was greatly burned might have. With sword and shield he sat, watching Illiv through the slits of a grotesque crimson mask, a mockery of an agonized face, bearing sharp teeth and wrathful eyes. The fight was announced, and both contestants stepped forwards to tap blades. Evaerus could see Illiv’s white knuckled grip, as he gently made contact with the other man’s sword. Mars adopted a crouched stance, ducking low behind a wide kite shield, as Illiv sprang forward. Illiv fought like one possessed, hurling a barrage of blows towards the other man the likes of which Evaerus had never seen. Twisting his body in contortionist positions, an unrelenting assault rained down upon the man in the mask, who seemed to block every blow perfectly with inhuman reflexes. The other man kept pace with Illiv’s footwork, never allowing him to get close enough to reach around the shield, but seldom seeing an opportunity of his own to strike. What blows he threw were quick, and usually fell short of their mark in order to avoid a furious retaliation upon the exposed arm. Then, suddenly masked man sent forth a whipcrack lash towards Illiv’s flank. He had picked the perfect time, a brief lull in the cadence of Illiv’s assault that only a master would have been able to identify and react to. Illiv twisted, to avoid the blow, but it was in vain. Red streaked outwards, and Illiv lost his footing, going down but rolling backwards. He stood back upright, and Evaerus could see a shallow, but long and heavily bleeding wound upon his chest. It appeared for a moment as though he were planning how best to renew his assault on the masked man, but out of the blue, Illiv raised his sword and shouted “I CONCEDE” before bowing to the other man and walking away. The crowd was quiet. It seemed wrong that such an energetic battle should be over so abruptly, but they could do naught but watch as the fiercely painted warrior returned to his seat, still bleeding. “Damn, but that was an intense fight! Your friend there is quite fast, but his rage seems unfocused. That other warrior did certainly earn the victory. Part of me still wishes that it had gone to a death though, and I don’t often say that.” Evaerus grunted. Illiv had risen from his seat, and was moving towards his companion, still bleeding. Evaerus watched as a member of the medical staff rose near Illiv rose and then sat down in quick succession and smiled. Evaerus considered leaving his aisle seat to meet Illiv, but decided against it, watching with perverse glee as the painted man awkwardly shuffled past the other men seated near him. His blood dripped everywhere. Eventually the shambling chaotic man-shape came to rest on its haunches near Evaerus. “Evaerus.” Evaerus was not certain how to respond. “Illiv.” “You have done well. Is the man next to you one of the Saints?” Evaerus turned towards Sinthaster, who coughed and extended a hand. “Yes, I am. Sinthaster Wolfeater, pleased to meet you. Illiv Cell, correct?” Illiv took the hand. He was now standing in a sizeable pool of blood. Evaerus was still rather shocked to find that the man actually bled. He had been half-expecting a swarm of spiders to just crawl out of Illiv’s body the moment a sword pieced the skin. “Yes, correct. I apologize if I seem unwieldly. I am still in the throes of divine inspiration.” Evaerus bit his lip as he watched the gears in Sinthaster’s mind ticked, trying desperately to glean some sort of intent from behind the stony mask of the bleeding man before him. “Ahhh, of course! I completely understand. We men of the gods must certainly be vigilant of such times, such moments!” Sinthaster laughed deeply and loudly. “You never know after all when one might be your last!” He broke contact then with the priest’s cold green eyes and gestured towards the man’s wound. “You might want to get that taken care of, friend. Lest you find yourself lacking the inspiration of the flesh.” Evaerus breathed easy. He knew that Illiv was only ever serious when speaking about “divine inspiration” and had feared that Sinthaster with his jovial nature might take it as sarcasm. He had done an excellent job giving an ambiguous reply though, proving his skill as a diplomat. Illiv looked startled though, and looked down towards his torso, as though he were seeing the wound for the first time. He stood in silence for a moment, head hung low, staring at the blood at his feet. Lady…I feel… Time slowed down. Illiv knew. The man, Sinthaster, thought he was a fool. A joke. He had failed. He was a child now, staring at his mistake. She trapped him here in this moment, to be humbled. He had seen himself as divine. All he could see was the pool of blood at his feet. I am nothing but blood. Not even my own. '' And he stood, frozen in time, feeling the world go on past him. A ghost. ''I’m dead. '' Evaerus was saying things to him. Words fell around him though, like broken pieces of a future cut short. ''How was my memory so poor? '' ''How did I fail you so quickly…? Please let me go, Lady… '' '' A moment passed as Evaerus and Sinthaster watched Illiv expectantly “My lord…?” With the priest’s eyes closed, the paint on his face resembled a skull more than ever. There was a cacophony of noises around the arena, but somehow the dripping of Illiv’s blood was all that Evaerus could hear, and he was filled with a strange sort of sympathy. He watched Illiv for a moment more before standing up himself. “I believe my lord’s injuries may be greater than we had expected. I hope to see you at the feast, Sir Wolfeater.” “And you, Evaerus! I wish Sir Cell the best, it was certainly a good fight he gave.” Evaerus was just about to put his hand on Illiv’s arm when the man suddenly burst out into laughter and spun around, flinging blood upon a number of horrified spectators. Illiv shot an icy glare at Sinthaster, who had recoiled in his seat to avoid a spray of blood, and through a rictus smile, shouted “There is absolutely nothing to worry about, Wolfeater! We children of the Black Lady have much blood to shed!” “Politics and intrigue have no interest to the dead, though many of those who inhabit the ground are those who once dabbled in such arts.” Illiv laughed, slowly spinning back through the aisle, gazing at the sky. “Better just to relax!” Sinthaster stared after the man as he walked away. He briefly made confused eye contact with Evaerus. Did that man just threaten me? ************* Evaerus stumbled after his bleeding leader, and was helpless to do anything other than watch in horror as the other man leaned in close to one of the frightened merchants, touched him on the nose with a bloody finger, and whispered “remember to relax!” The slightly overweight man’s face looked like folded pastry dough with eyes buried deep within squinting sockets as Illiv’s furious skull bore down upon him. Evaerus looked over his shoulder and was relieved to see Sinthaster scowling over steepled fingers, gazing at the fighting. He looked back towards Illiv to find the other man already moving towards the arena’s exit. He jogged after him, jingling as he went. *********** Stepping through the archway leading out of the arena, Evaerus had begun to worry that he lost track of Illiv when the other man wheeled upon him from the side wall. “That might have gone differently.” His tone suddenly held the mirth and emotion of a frozen desert as he spoke. “Ah, Lord…We should really fix that wound…There are medics.” Illiv waved dismissively. “This is nothing. I’ll see medics shortly. Anyway, it was inevitable that Wolfeater wouldn’t see me as an equal. I’m honestly not as learned as him, and we currently number only three in company.” Evaerus scowled “Isn’t the point of having me around to do things like negotiate so you don’t run in and embarrass us all with your uncompromising fucking insanity?” Illiv shrugged “I wanted to meet him myself. Mostly I’m interested by Mobilis. Any man who fights that well has the will of fate behind him. I am intrigued by Wolfeater only because, from what I’ve seen, Winedrinker might be a better title for the man. That hardly seems to fit for a Saint.” Evaerus made to speak but Illiv continued on, “So, I did what the whores in my village did a thousand times.” Evaerus was derailed. “What?” “Ahhhh, I almost forgot that you were once the sort of mercenary, like Wolfeater, to be drawn in by such a thing. A mundane whore approaches a captain, a guard, a man of greater status or power than her and what does she do? She can sleep with him, sure, and hope that she’s more remarkable than all of the other women he’s sleeping with. Or she can do something strange, and leave. Really dazzle him and he’ll forget she’s even a whore. And that man will sit there wondering about her for the rest of his life if he doesn’t go after her. I think I gave Wolfeater just enough to wonder about.” “That seems…accurate.” Evaerus scratched his chin and pondered what Illiv had said and done. A painted skull cocked on its side. “When I mentioned whores in my village it certainly derailed you from how you had planned on chastising me for how it would in any circumstances be wisest for you to simply report back to me in detail.” Evaerus growled. “Seven fuck you to hell.” Illiv scowled at the blasphemy. “I’m going to make myself presentable for the feast. Try to see if you can’t make contact with the Shield Maidens, I won’t bother you further. If I can get at Mobilis though I will.” *********** Illiv had considered leaving the city and finding a place to be alone but realized that realistically he would never make it back to the feast in time. Instead he returned to the stables where he and Evaerus had stored their horses, retrieved his rucksack, and found a dark crevasse of an alleyway. He kicked his way through detritus and refuse. It smelled awful, but it smelled not of dismemberment. Illiv made a small clearing in the trash, and rats scattered away. There he sat, cross legged and content. He produced a clean towel and a waterskin and began to clean and stitch his wound. The thought as he went about his work. His teeth ground together, working the experienced muscles of his jaw as he relived the fight. He had felt like a demon, he knew that Unquala had been with him. He felt invincible, his limbs like flickering flames casting his swords like unpredictable sparks to the wind. Yet that mangled shell of a man had not even been challenged. He felt that Evaerus at least had been impressed by his fighting, but that was not enough. The reality was that he was no challenge for that man, and all of his fury had been deflected away like an arrow glancing off of a smooth shield. When the Soan had thrown his shot, Illiv was sure that it was going to kill him. Some conscious part of his mind had screamed out, crying to any deity who would listen, calling “No!” and it was only by some autonomous miracle of his body that he had mitigated the shot at all. He was certain that it was not him who had dodged the blow. He had been certain also that he was no challenge to that fighter. Or perhaps that had just been his human lack of faith? Perhaps he had been tested. He had been shown a miracle, of just how much control She had over his body at that time, and he had been too busy reeling, afraid of dying, to continue the fight. Needle and thread sat in his hand, blowing in a foul wind as he gazed outward. Past the horde of people walking past. Was the other man a knowing servant of another god? Why did he wear a mask? I failed. '' Illiv collected himself and brought out his paints. His current mask was a smeared shame. ************* The feast was crowded, the density of heat and heaving bodies oppressed movement, retreat, sanctuary. A table had been set in one corner of the room to be reserved for the “champions of the arena.” ''Champions. Hah. Illiv would have avoided it, avoided the whole thing had it not been for Greyne Mobilis. The man fascinated Illiv. He had asked several people while waiting to fight if the champion had associated himself with any of the Seven and was shocked to hear that he had not. The quickness with which he landed his blows was wasted on the flesh of his fellow man- Greyne mobilis was a hero, fit to slay ancient hydras, eldritch titans, and accursed forsaken. He was at the head of the table, quietly drinking from a large mug and watching the others. Illiv took his seat, next to the elf, Zeeno. They briefly gave a tight lipped handshake before Illiv turned his attention elsewhere. “So. How did you get so talented?” Illiv waited patiently for the other man to answer, as he looked deep into his drink. “If you don’t mind my asking, of course.” Greyne started, turning quickly around to Illiv “Oh, you were talking to me.” The swordsman stroked a thick brown mustache. “Hard work and practice.” What a ridiculous lie. “I see. Have you ever wondered if there was some sort of divine intent behind your skill?” Greyne analyzed the painted man before him. It didn’t take much to realize that he was a zealot of some sort. To which god did he pay homage? Unquala? Or perhaps the forsaken themselves? “Ummmm, yeah. Sure. Sometimes.” Illiv leaned in closer, and Greyne leaned farther away. “I knew it. We were fated to meet here, Greyne Mobilis. A confrontation is coming. The gods call upon us men to serve them! To fight the evil of this world. There is no point in pretense, for their messages are clear. From the moment my village was torn apart by Forsaken claws, I knew that it was my destiny to end their kind once and for all, and now I call upon you, in the name of the gods. I ask you to come forth to Rhivic with me, deep into the bowels of hell to call forth the ashen elves to fight the forsaken in the name of death and to reclaim the throne of chains!” Illiv laughed, loud and manic. What a beautiful thing, destiny was. Greyne stared wide eyed with his mouth open, like any man whose obvious fate had come calling to him might. Illiv heard silence from other conversations at the table. Let them wonder. “Your village was torn apart by…what?” He finally pushed the words out. Illiv suddenly caught himself. Perhaps he had made too many assumptions. He made eye contact with Greyne, and there was fear there. From the corner of his eye he could see other men looking at their conversation, and recalled what Evaerus had mentioned the previous day about The Forsaken. We call them forsaken here, Illiv. They aren’t just monsters. They’re something ominous that most people either don’t believe in or don’t want to believe in. With even greater fervor he slammed the table and shouted “Yes! Foul, undead beasts, skeletons and zombies, animated by a wretched, gnarled necromancer! He fell by the edge of my blade, but more will come! Death shall be our reality soon, and only death!” Fear was replaced by confusion and distaste. Excellent. Illiv swung around, wrapping an arm around Greyne’s shoulder. The man made a sound somewhere between a disgusted grunt and a startled squeak. “You and I, Greyne. We were gifted. Will you serve with us? Will you fight the monsters of this world for divine glory?” “Ummmm…No. No I don’t think so, sorry.” He extracted himself from Illiv’s embrace and made a face. Illiv spun around, facing Greyne as he began to walk away. “It shall be your curse then, blasphemer! Fool! Go against the gods and suffer! Suffer!” Illiv exited the room laughing. The entire feasting hall was briefly quiet. Sinthaster raised an eyebrow into his wine goblet. Evaerus had paused mid-sentence with a representative of The Curators and finished it with “---we’re really good people. I promise.” He smiled his best smile. Zeeno glanced at the delicious meal laid out before him and sighed before excusing himself from the table. He thanked the many other fighters and left to pursue his new friend. And from the corner of the room, an elven woman waited until the chaos of the feast had returned in full force before gliding from shadow to shadow, exiting the room as quietly as she had entered. Category:Character lore